


in the land of gods and monsters

by julietcapulet



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Deal with a Devil, F/F, Light Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, S&M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1289767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietcapulet/pseuds/julietcapulet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lana comes back to your office a week later, you can’t say you’re surprised.</p><p>(Would you make a deal with the Devil if it meant you could be wanted forever?)</p><p>Part II of "run in the shadows."</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the land of gods and monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cissablack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissablack/gifts).



> **Title** : in the land of gods and monsters  
>  **Fandom** : American Horror Story: Asylum.  
>  **Rating** : Explicit.  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Lana/Mary Eunice.  
>  **Word Count** : 3658.  
>  **Warning(s)** : Bloodplay, orgasm delay, s&m, light bondage, painplay, wax play, biting.

When Lana comes back to your office a week later, you can’t say you’re surprised.

Nothing surprises you, anyway. In fact, you’ve heard her thoughts brewing for the past few days––weighing the pros and cons of coming to see you again, tossing and turning in her bed at night with her hand between her legs trying to decide how much of a monster you’ve made of her––and she’s been nearly dead-set on returning to you since yesterday, when the blood in her veins reached a boiling point and she knew there was only one way to sate it. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” you say, softly, as she shuts the door behind her and grimaces.

“Save it,” she snaps. She’s uncertain of whether or not she wants to sit––so she remains standing, briefly, eyes flickering between the chair and you, before you give her a look that incites her to solemnly seat herself across from you on the other side of your desk. She draws a measured breath before meeting your eyes. “Look, you––whatever you are––you _did_ something to me. I don’t know what it is, or how you did it, but you did it, and––” she pauses, quivering. “I need you to _un_ do it.”

“Ungrateful girl,” you cluck, quirking a brow. “The only thing I did was open a door. Consider it a gift.”

“I need you to _close_ it,” she responds, emphatically. But you see inside her and you know she wants quite the opposite. She wants you to push the door open as far as it can go. And you’re happy to gratify. 

You chuckle and swivel your chair around, rising from it with an ominous creak that gives Lana a start. “I don’t think you really want that, Lana,” you say, casually, as you make your way toward her. She doesn’t flinch this time as you reach forward and skirt a hand over her cheekbone. “No more secrets,” you tuck a strand of oily hair behind her ear. She shudders away from your touch. “I know what you really want. And what you want is so strong I can smell it from here,” you add, glibly, with a giddy smile as the color in her face deepens to a dark crimson. “Look at that blood blooming under your cheeks,” you observe, dragging a finger over the heat radiating from her skin. “See, you’re giving me conflicting signals, Lana. But lucky for the both of us, I know which is stronger.”

Lana looks as though she’s contemplating something, but you search her mind and it’s blank. Eerily calm; resigned. Whatever it is, she’s made a choice. She bites down on her lower lip, her pupils swell and her eyes are swallowed by darkness, and before you know it she’s lunging forward at you, grabbing at you with a wanton need betrayed by way her mouth swallows your breath (if you had any breath to begin with, anyway). One moment her nails drag angrily across your back, so intently that you can feel her untrimmed nails through your habit, and the next moment she’s snapping the buttons that fasten the front of your gown in her impatience to disrobe you. You have to say, you’re impressed. But not surprised. 

“That’s it,” you coax her, nipping at her upper lip, “that’s more like it.”

“Oh, God,” Lana moans, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, as if invoking her God will save her from the degradation her body is craving––and the moral evisceration her immortal soul _needs_. “ _God_ ,” she reiterates, breath catching as her hands weave under your unbuttoned dress to clutch at the flesh beneath. 

_God_? 

Resentment surges through your chest and before her mouth can find its way to your breast you take an unprecedented step backward and send a slap flying against her jaw. She doubles over, utterly confounded by your behavior, and when she gasps and straightens herself to regard you, blood oozing from the corner of her lip, her brows knit in confusion and she holds her hands at the source of the pain throbbing through her head. You merely smile and say, with a severity inconsistent with your benign façade, “God isn’t allowed in this house.” 

Lana sputters, spits on the ground, and backs up into your desk, still holding her jaw and looking at you with a feral intensity somewhere on the spectrum between rage and lust. She feels the coppery blood on her tongue and shivers as she swallows some, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She’s developed a taste for it. _Good_.

“Save some for me,” you interrupt her sniveling and sweep your mouth over hers, sliding your tongue through her lips to gather up the tangy residue still lingering on her gums. She willing submits to your ministrations, her hands climbing up to rest on your shoulders as she surrenders to your kiss wholesomely, dragging you down on top of her as she splays herself out on the desk. She’s eager. You like that.

But she’s still wearing clothes.

Almost as if she read your mind, she hikes her dress up over her head and tosses it aside, anxiously tearing at her undergarments until they, too, are discarded, and she’s left totally exposed beneath you, chest heaving with the effort, body covered in a thick sheen of sweat. She clamps her knees around your hips and you grin, leaning down teasingly to flick a tongue over her open mouth, still carrying the flavor of fresh blood.

“That’s it, Lana,” you hum, content, “this is who you are.” Lana’s features darken at the comment and she chooses to ignore it, sliding her hands under your dress to press against the arbitrary wetness there––residue of the human girl who, despite your control over her, still _feels_ the weakness of human lust, still tastes the blood on Lana’s mouth, still craves the release that Lana, in all her human incandescence, can give her.

But despite Lana’s apparent need to reciprocate some of the pleasure you’re affording her, you wrest yourself from her hand and push her back against the table gruffly, swirling your fingers over her nipples before digging into the surrounding flesh, hard, with your nails. She lets out a cry as the delicate skin is punctured, but you don’t release her from your grasp until you feel her blood, hot and thick, collecting under your fingernails. You reach down and lap at the blood oozing through the fresh wounds on her breasts and the sensation of your tongue on the source of her pain produces a mind-numbing effect on Lana, so much so that she gyrates her hips upward and wraps her legs around your torso, pulling you closer to the growing heat between her legs. “ _More_ ,” she pleads, and you’re not sure if she’s asking for more pain or more pleasure. 

You choose to oblige her in the former. 

You wrench yourself free from her iron grasp and step back, finding your footing over her on the desk. She regards you hungrily, face pink and blotchy, awaiting your next move (that rare, beautiful moment when the prey submits entirely to the predator, when the hunted faces the hunter, dauntless, reckless, fearless––a total, deafening defeat that makes the girl’s heart within you rush with anticipation and, dare you say it, bloodlust). Well, Mary Eunice isn’t the only one who’s developed a taste for the slaughter, it seems.

You reach for the letter-opener on your desk and slide it over Lana’s abdomen, which cinches reflexively under its cold exterior. Fear leaks into her eyes but slowly fades when you draw the blade to your own hand and slip it cleanly across your open palm, blood dripping invitingly over her pelvis. She takes your injured hand with her own and draws it closer to her mouth, tremulously, eyeing you the whole time as if, somehow, you’re _making_ her do this, as if this––this _horrific_ ––thing she’s craving isn’t stemming from her own volition, but rather is an extension of yours. But when the blood drips over her mouth, when her tongue emerges to lick that metallic flavor, somehow she _knows_ it’s what she wants, after all. 

And it’s too much.

She pushes your hand away, disgusted by herself no doubt, and whispers, “Stop. Stop making me do this. I don’t––I don’t want to do _that_.”

Your lips curve into a playful simper. “Don’t you?” When she remains silent, you sigh. “Spoilsport.” With a clatter, you toss the blade to the floor and throw your hands in the air. “Oh well. I’ve got lots of other ideas.” 

Heartened by this, you flick your wrist and Lana is levitated rapidly across the room, her stomach flattened against the wall, limbs spread out and fastened by invisible, unflinching bonds. She’s nervous, breathing heavily, but doesn’t struggle. She knows better. Good.

She half expects you to fetch a whip from Jude’s cabinet, but you like maintaining the element of suspense. Instead you drag a finger over her rear and slide your fingers between her legs. She gasps, leaning into your touch as best she can without full control of her body, and tightens, arousal building rapidly. Her bare shoulder trembles before you invitingly, and you dip your face toward it, dragging your teeth over her skin as you knead over her fleshy core, slipping a finger inside her. You bite down fiercely and somewhere in her brain she registers the pain but she is distracted by your hand; you can feel her mind get dizzy as you pick up the pace, gingerly at first, then more deliberately, and then––you withdraw your fingers. She lets out a low whine, but really, what does she expect? 

“Are you going––are you going to cane me?” she asks, almost hopefully, and you answer her only with a laugh. 

You move your eyes from her form to one of the votary candles that was knocked off Jude’s desk (one Jude used to pray with, as it were, before her prayers stopped being answered, or even heard), and you summon it into your hand, light it with a blink of Mary Eunice’s eyelids, and––

“What––what are you going to do with that?” Lana asks apprehensively, catching a glimpse of the flame from her periphery. 

You don’t answer her. Instead, you raise the candle over Lana’s back and tilt it forward until the hot wax spills onto her flesh, and she yelps, simultaneously appreciative for and incensed by the angry red marks puckering the skin surrounding her spine. You keep going until her back is well smattered with the stuff, and she’s writhing and whimpering in spite of herself. When you’re satisfied, you release her bonds and she tumbles onto the floor, back smarting, breasts still swollen from your earlier attention, yet still eager to push you further. 

Undaunted, she gathers herself up from the ground and spins around to face you, approaching you with unprecedented speed and crashing your lips together. Her teeth dig down on your bottom lip violently and a pleased chuckle burbles up through your throat as she knots her hands in your hair and tugs viciously, as if she can get into your head if she just pulls hard enough. 

Still holding the candle, you flick your wrist and slam her down onto the desk, invisible bonds fastening her wrists out to her sides. You step forward, between her legs, and meet her gaze forebodingly as you snap your fingers with your free hand and shut her eyes––she struggles to open them but finds that she can’t. You smirk as she lets out a panicked cry, unable to see what you’re doing, but at the same time, you can sense that she is exhilarated by the loss of control (Lana, Lana, Lana, dominant in all aspects of her life but this––the one place she permits herself to be dominated). She needs this almost as much as you do.

Without prelude you tilt the candle over and a glob of fresh wax dribbles over her abdomen, leaving hot red flesh in its wake. Lana moans slowly, biting down on her lower lip to stifle the noise, but you press on, making patterns with the wax all the way down to her pelvis, where you pause for a moment to admire the swollen, puckered redness moistening her core. She’s expecting the wax to continue down further but you defy her expectations and instead set the candle on the floor, kneeling down beside it to breathe softly between her legs, until she’s moaning much louder and straining against her bondage in a silent, desperate plea for your expert touch. You hover closer to her and dart a tongue over her folds, and a cry tears from her lungs that rings like music in your ears. She throbs eagerly as you search her, deeper, with your tongue, and when you deign to release her bonds she surges forth and rises to a sitting position, riding your mouth greedily, insides contracting around your tongue. 

Her eyes open now, finally, and without paying heed to the wax sticking to her abdomen and back, she flexes over you, trying to get a better angle. But, as per the rules of the game, as soon as she moves you withdraw your mouth from her core, still sticky and wet from the being inside her, and roll back on your heels, beckoning her forward with a curl of your index finger. Trembling, Lana follows your instruction and straddles you on the floor, shaking as she lowers herself on top of you. 

“What do you need, Lana?” you ask, raising a brow (though you have no intention of giving her what she needs, at least, not yet). 

“ _You_ ,” she says, huskily, and reaches for your finger. You wait to see her endgame, allowing her the belief that you will permit her to do with you as she pleases, and she fits your index and middle fingers inside her, letting out a tight breath as you twist them against the soft tissue you feel there. She begins to move over you at a steady pace, head falling back, mouth hanging open, eyes fluttering closed as she surrenders entirely to the waves of pleasure vibrating through her. But as soon as she picks up the pace, her thrusts against your fingers getting a little more insistent, you press your free hand against her pelvis and stop her, pushing her back against the side of the desk. She crumples forward, body surging with heat, and looks at you imploringly. 

“Please,” she begs you, quietly. “I’ll do anything,” she makes the mistake of promising.

“Anything?” you echo, rising from the floor to take hold of the letter opener once more. She stiffens at the sight of it, knowing and fearing and craving simultaneously what favor you’re about to ask of her (knowing she should have never promised anything, because, doesn’t she ever learn?). “Well, where I’m from,” you begin, somewhat conversationally, “blood-sharing is an important ritual, only to be committed by someone willing to submit to me, or others like me, forever.” There’s a glint of fear in Lana’s eyes and it sends a thrill down your spine. “Tell me, Lana,” you begin, leaning forward, drawing a circle over her core, “how badly do you want me?” 

Lana whimpers, gasping at your touch, nails digging into your shoulders. “I don’t sign anything without reading the terms and conditions first,” she manages to grate out.

You let out a long sigh and remove your hand, much to her dismay. “We do the ritual, you’re mine.” She frowns at you, displeased by the wording. “And I treat my pets _very_ well,” you add, with a roll of your eyes. “The benefits? Well, I can teach you some helpful tricks of the trade. You’ll get out of here. You can achieve anything you want––you can win that _Pulitzer_ ––without so much as lifting a finger.” At the mention of that stupid award you feel her heart race with longing. 

Still, with carefully eschewed emotion, Lana replies, “And in exchange?”

“You take no other lovers. You do anything I ask of you. You join me in the afterlife. You ask no questions.”

“No other lovers?” Lana echoes, a facetious note in her voice. “Do you get jealous easily?”

“You won’t _need_ any other lovers,” you threaten, and that silences her for the time being. “No one will be able to give you the pleasure you need. Only I can do that.” So what if you’re possessive? Sharing what’s rightfully yours has never appealed to you.

Lana takes the letter opener from you and turns it over a few times in her hands, mulling your offer over. Her ambition has always been her downfall, and you’re counting on it this time. _Pulitzer, Pulitzer, Pulitzer_ rings like a bell in her mind, over and over, melded with images of suffering in Briarcliff, with images of Wendy’s betrayal, with Jude’s smug face and the orderlies’ brazen advances. 

“I’m going to hell anyway, aren’t I?” she asks, unguarded, and it’s the first time you’ve seen her vulnerable––truly vulnerable––since her initial confinement here. How _charming_ , you think to yourself. She swallows thickly, eyes still fixed to the blade. “Because of this. Because of what I let you do to me. Because of what I am. I’m going to go to hell.” 

“Of course you’re going to hell, Lana,” you respond, brightly. This breaks her focus on the blade and she sniffs, blinking away the fuzziness clouding her eyes. “People like you always do.” At that her face crumbles and you cluck your tongue, brushing a tear from her eye. “But you’ll like it there if you’re with me.” 

It takes her a moment to collect herself. “And if I agree to this––you’ll let me out of here.”

“Of course,” you say, though you have no intention of doing so ( _yet_ ).

 _Pulitzer, Pulitzer,_ she turns around in her head, over and over, as an anthem that would somehow justify all the misery here that she’s been forced to endure. _Pulitzer, Wendy, Pulitzer, Bloodyface, Wendy, Sister Jude, Pulitzer._ It’s at that moment that something in her snaps––whether it was the calling to mind of Wendy’s face or the image of herself accepting the Pulitzer remains a mystery to you, but when she looks at you again her jaw is set and the tears in her eyes are gone.

“Then do it,” she says, bravely. “Bind me.”

You search for any indication of untruthfulness in her eyes and can find none. 

Wordlessly, you take the blade from her hand and position it at the soft flesh at the junction between your forearm and upper arm. In one clean, even sweep, you slice the skin there and inhale deeply as the screams of Mary Eunice, buried inside you, reach a new volume and pitch. Lana doesn’t wait for a directive and takes the blade from you, mirroring your action and cutting the skin in the same place as you––her blood tingles, calling to you, and she barely has time to drop the blade before you grab onto her hand, lacing your fingers together. The veins from your wrist to your incision turn black and begin pulsating as hers, too, do the same, and soon your arms together form a seamless, unbreakable chord––a link, a vow, a connection impossible to sever. When you flick your focus to Lana she’s staring back at you, jaw locked, eyes flooded black. You hold her gaze as the moment builds, watching with delight as she sputters suddenly, struggling for air against the tightness in her arm. The tie between you now is so overwhelming that you can see more, feel more, sense more than you ever had about Lana––and she, too, can see into your soul for the first time. 

She looks into the void of your heart and does not flinch.

(It doesn’t go unnoticed that she’s the first one to bind herself to you without fear.)

And then the ritual is done, and your arms sag, and she is yours for eternity.

(It doesn’t go unnoticed that owning her for eternity feels _good_ , in more ways than one.)

There’s silence for a moment. Lana peers at you through new eyes, scrying through your chosen exterior, but sees now, sees _everything_ , and the unspoken question dying on her lips reverberates through your skull: _what are you capable of?_

Without giving voice to her curiosity, without waiting for you to answer, she’s clamoring on top of you, impatient for her reward (perhaps she doesn’t want an answer to a question she’s afraid to ask, anyway). 

“I did what you wanted,” she declares, hoarsely. “Now _fuck_ me.”

You flip her over onto her back and dig your nails into her hips as you drag your tongue from her bellybutton to her core, ignoring the clots of wax still attached to her skin. She heaves her center into your mouth and you suck readily at the wetness there, edging your tongue inside her until she’s keening loudly at your touch, fingers knotted in your hair. She’s close (you can tell by the way her moans soar into the stratosphere and her nails begin piercing your scalp), and when she climaxes, you both feel it with perilous intensity because your blood is shared, now, and whatever she feels, _you_ feel tenfold.

When she collapses against the floor, breathless and spent, you hover your lips over hers and say, “You’re mine, Lana Winters.” 

“Yours,” she echoes, brokenly.

Somewhere from deep within her, Lana’s blood blackens at the sound of your voice.

Somewhere from deep within _you_ , a sensation much too close to pleasure leaks into your veins.

Neither makes Lana’s departure any easier.


End file.
